


The Unexpected Life

by RecoveringTheSatellites



Series: Trope-a-palooza [3]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Bailbonds!Emma, Captain Cobra - Freeform, Captain Cobra Swan, Don't copy to another site, F/M, Happy Ending, Slow Burn, librarian!killian
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-23
Updated: 2019-09-30
Packaged: 2020-10-13 06:22:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20577914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RecoveringTheSatellites/pseuds/RecoveringTheSatellites
Summary: Killian never thought he'd end up a librarian.  He had other plans.  Plans that didn't work out.But just because you never got where you wanted to go, doesn't mean you're not exactly where you need to be.Next up on Trope-a-palooza: The Library.Captain Swan with a huge helping of Captain Cobra on the side, and an absolute absence of angst.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my entry for the CS September Sunshine 2019, and my very first cinnamon roll.

_ I may not have gone where I intended to go, but I think I have ended up where I needed to be. _

_ \- Douglas Adams, “The Long Dark Tea-Time of the Soul” - _

  
  
  


  
  


It’s strange, the way it happens slowly and yet suddenly.

One afternoon, a random Tuesday afternoon, she walks into his library with a small boy and somehow never leaves. Or at least that’s what it feels like.

He doesn’t really notice her the first time she comes in. He has his hands full with helping a group of people fill out job applications, and she and the boy sit down quietly at one of the tables.

The boy pulls out homework and the woman pulls out a laptop, and there is very little conversation. Later, he finds her and the boy on one of the couches, reading together. She keeps her voice low and the boy is curled up against her, and then her phone beeps.

She simply hands the book to the boy. “Sorry, kid - I have to---”

“Got it. You go.”

She kisses the top of his head and says, “I’ll be back soon, OK?”

The boy smiles and then keeps reading.

She comes back two hours later, a little disheveled and a little out of breath. The boy looks up and asks, “Got him?” and she smiles and nods and then someone walks up to him with a question and he doesn’t notice them leave.

  
  
  
  


That night finds him in front of his laptop. Just like every wasted night before it. Years of it now.

There are four paragraphs on his screen. They are the sum total of three hours he has spent trying to write. When he re-reads them, he counts three split infinitives and a metaphor tortured beyond recognition, and the entire thing smacks of  _ The Silmarillion. _

With a sigh he deletes all of it.

And then types the word ‘The’.

He stares at it for another hour. The words will not come, no matter what. In the end he gets up, wipes his eyes in frustration, and goes to bed. 

  
  
  
  


They come in every day. Every afternoon around 3PM they set up shop at the end of the table. When the boy is finished with his homework she simply asks, “All done, kid?”, and when the boy nods, she believes him. Mostly he reads by himself after that. Sometimes they read together. They look peaceful, next to each other on the couch.

The thing that really makes him pay attention is that they start coming in on weekends as well. And spend most of the day in what he now thinks of as ‘their corner’. And that they have only spoken a handful of words to him in almost two months. She has smiled politely, and nodded when he said “Hello”, and on the second day she asked where the bathroom was. The boy requested access to one of the computers and must have remembered the password, because he has not asked for it since.

They keep to themselves, her engrossed with the things on her screen, and the boy canvassing the Young Adults section when he gets done with his homework. Her phone beeps often, but not too loudly. Not so much that it is a nuisance. Usually after she gets a beep, she leaves for a spell. More often than not she comes back somewhat out of sorts, but she always smiles brightly at the boy and usually brings him a pastry. Strictly speaking, food is not allowed in the library. But he has never enforced this rule, as long as people don’t start bringing actual tupperware.

He can’t make heads nor tails of it. But he is content to leave them be. All lives need a little mystery, and this is his.

  
  
  


And then, one Saturday evening right before closing, her phone beeps, and forces her into interaction. The way she stands in front of him, biting her lip, somehow both nervous and determined, makes it very hard not to smile at her. When he knows instinctively that smiling at her will make whatever situation worse, so he clamps down on his grin and simply nods his encouragement.

“I’m so sorry to bother you,” she says, her voice low. “You’re the manager, right?”   
He nods.

“I know you close in 20 minutes, but I just---” She holds up her phone, and bites her lip again. “I just got a... job---” it’s odd, the way she pauses, “and I really really need to leave for a bit, and---” She takes a deep breath, and then suddenly there is a rush of words. “Would it be OK for Henry to stay here a little past closing?” She points at the boy, sitting on the couch with a book in his lap, following their conversation. “I promise he’ll be no trouble. He doesn’t need a babysitter, he can keep himself busy. It’s just, I really need---”

It’s the word ‘need’ that gets him. Not the word, the sheer desperation behind it.

He was about to tell her no. He is tired, and starving, and really wants to go home. But what she’s asking is not a simple favor, he can tell. There is more here than meets the eye, and so he does smile.

“It’s no problem,” he says.

She breathes an enormous sigh of relief and then looks both grateful and chagrined at herself, as if she had betrayed too much emotion.

“Thank you.” It’s quite possibly the most sincere thanks he has ever received. Her eyes are earnest. This is not someone who is used to asking for favors.

Not someone who needs favors. From anyone.

She looks over at the boy. “Kid, you can stay. I’ll be back as soon as possible.”

The boy smiles and rolls his eyes. “I know the drill.”

“Do not bother this nice man, OK? Please? Can you promise me that?”

The boy - no,  _ Henry _ \- rolls his eyes again. It’s an expression Killian can picture the mother making. Often. “Go, Mom. Just go!”

She laughs and looks back at him. “I really appreciate this. I promise to make it up to you.”

“It’s fine.”

Her eyes narrow for the briefest of moments and then her face relaxes and he feels like he just passed an important test. This whole exchange has been exceedingly odd.

Then she holds out her hand. “My name is Emma. Emma Swan. And I’m just--- Thank you so much. Again.”

He has never seen anyone so torn. She is so sincerely grateful for his help and yet so absolutely exasperated with herself for having to ask for it in the first place. She hands him her phone. “Can you put your number in here?”

He types in his number. “Nice to meet you, Emma Swan. I’m Killian. Killian Jones.”

And with that she nods, says, “Bye kid!”, and leaves.

Henry’s eyes look at Killian with that same scanning mode his mother demonstrated a moment ago, and then he goes back to reading his book.

Odd.

  
  
  


Almost an hour of silence later, Henry’s stomach rumbles. Loudly.

Killian gets up from his desk, where he has been doing nothing but stare at an empty screen, and sits down next to the boy. “What would you say to a spot of pizza?”

Henry looks up and grins. “A  _ spot _ of pizza?”

“Well--” Killian shrugs, “I feel victuals are in order.”

Henry’s eyebrows climb nearly to his hairline. “Where are you from?”

“England.”

“Do they all talk like that? I don’t even know what victels are.”

Killian grins. “VicTUALs. It means food supplies. And no, not everyone talks like that. But former English professors do.” He doesn’t mean to say that last part. It just slips out, and he grinds his teeth for a moment..

Henry, on the other hand, just nods and quietly repeats the word. “Victuals. Got it.” Then he frowns. “I don’t have any money.”

“That wasn’t my question.”

Henry gives him a very sharp look. He is definitely his mother’s son. Then he grins. “In that case, I could eat some pizza. I like mushrooms.”

  
  


It’s almost 10 PM, the pizza has been devoured, and he has tried texting Emma twice, without an answer. Henry looks both tired and worried, and tries to let neither show. It’s impressive for such a young boy. When the third yawn looks like it’s going to dislocate his jaw, Killian makes a decision.

“Henry, when is your usual bedtime?”

“Kind of a little while ago.”

Killian nods. “That’s what I thought. Come with me.”

He leads the boy to his office and makes him lie down on the couch. As he’s looking for a blanket, Henry’s voice comes out from underneath another yawn. “Please don’t be mad at my mom.”

Killian looks up in surprise. “Be mad at her? Whatever for?”

Henry’s voice is low and earnest. “I know she said she wouldn’t be long, and now she’s late. But she always has a really good reason, and I know she didn’t mean to. Be this late.”

Killian walks over to the couch and spreads a blanket over the boy. “May I ask what your mother does for a living?”

Henry smiles. “She catches bad guys.” It sounds proud.

“Is she a police officer?”

“No.” Henry shakes his head. “I think she wanted to be. But they wouldn’t let her. So she does bail bonds now.”

“Bail bonds?” Killian only has a vague idea what that entails.   
“They call them skips. People who run away from their trial. She catches them and brings them back.” Henry looks a little more worried than he did just a moment ago. “She’ll be back, I promise.”

Killian realizes that Henry isn’t worried for his mother. He’s worried Killian will think badly of his mother. Then another yawn overtakes him and Killian puts his hand on Henry’s shoulder.

“I’m sure she will,” he says. “Meanwhile, why don’t you sleep?”

Henry’s eyes are already falling shut and Killian turns off the light and makes his way back to the main floor.

He pulls out his laptop and sets it down on the table.

And just stares at the word ‘The’.

Nothing comes. 

  
  
  


45 minutes later there is a loud banging on the front library doors. When Killian opens them, Emma practically falls into the foyer.

“Please forgive me,” she says. “Oh god, I’m so sorry.”

This time there is no misplaced pride in her voice. She sounds crushed and contrite and almost frantic.

He puts his hand on her shoulder. “Breathe, Emma. It’s fine.”

“It’s just -- that bastard was late showing, and then he put up a fight, and then booking down at the station took forever and my phone ran out of battery and---”

“Emma,” he repeats, and waits until she looks at him. “Please breathe.”

She takes a deep breath and looks around. “Where’s Henry?”

“Asleep in my office. Come with me.”

She stops him within feet of his office. Through the half-open door they can see Henry’s head burrowed into a cushion, his breathing slow and even, fast asleep. She tugs on Killian’s sleeve and motions him to take a few steps back. Then she looks at him, all earnest remorse and sincerity.

“How can I make it up to you?”

He shakes his head and smiles. “No need.”

She bites her lip hard. He knows that for some people - him included - it’s hard to accept kindness from strangers. But for her? It seems impossible.

“Please tell me. Let me give you something.”

She is  _ squirming _ . It would be endearing if it weren’t so obviously eating her alive.

Killian shakes his head. “Tell me, Emma Swan,” he looks her straight in the eye, “the fact that you left tonight, it was necessary, yes?”

She nods. Still squirming. But committed to honesty.

“If there had been another way, you would have chosen it, yes?”

She nods again.

“Then there is no need to feel bad. You don’t owe me anything. It was my pleasure.”

The last bit surprises him as he says it. Because it really had been a pleasure. Henry somehow ended up being perfect company - quiet and smart and a fiend for mushroom pizza.

He had thoroughly enjoyed himself.

Emma gives him the exact same sharp look Henry gave him earlier, but then her shoulders relax. “Thank you,” she says, and again the sheer sincerity of it makes him swallow hard.

“May we come back to your library? Even after all this?” She bites her lip again. “Henry really loves it here.”

Killian has to smile. “Well, it is a public building, you know,” he says, and then removes all flippancy from his tone. “You are more than welcome any time. It’s a pleasure to see someone who enjoys books so much. I wish there were more people like your son.”

“Thank you again.” She exhales a long breath.

It is only then, as her shoulders slump and release their tension, that he notices how utterly exhausted she looks. And that she is somehow more disheveled than she usually is when she returns. The front of her t-shirt looks overstretched, like someone pulled at it, hard.

_ And then the guy put up a fight. _

“Emma,” he says quietly, “Are you all right?”

Her eyes narrow immediately and the tension springs back into her shoulders as she pulls them back in defiance.

“I’m perfectly fine.” Her tone is icy. “Thank you for watching Henry.” This ‘Thank you’ could not be more different from the last ones. It is calculated dismissal and it leaves him dumbstruck. “We won’t take up any more of your time. Just let me get the kid and go home.”

With that she walks into his office and gently rouses Henry. He looks sleepy and not altogether present, even after he sits up.

Killian hurries in after her. He can’t help but feel like he messed up, but he doesn’t quite know what he did wrong. And he certainly doesn’t know how to fix it. But he has to try. 

“Can I call you a cab? Or an Uber, or something?” It looks like Henry is about to fall over, and the boy looks too big for Emma to carry.

She shakes her head. “We’ll be fine.”

And with that she does pick him up and leaves, wobbling slightly under his weight.

He finds himself worrying whether they made it home OK for several hours.

  
  
  


They come in the following Monday bearing gifts. When they show up, Henry plunks a paper bag down on Killian’s desk and Emma carefully follows that with a takeout cup, smiling sheepishly.

“This is for all your troubles. And for feeding Henry pizza.”

The cup is filled with coffee, which smells delicious. When he looks inside the bag, he counts at least five different kinds of pastry.

“I didn’t know what you liked, so we got you a bit of a selection.” She looks embarrassed.

Henry looks at him in question. “I guessed croissants and bear claws.” He shudders. “ _ Mom _ thought muffins were a good idea.” He is obviously upset at the very thought. “And  _ Danish _ .” His disgust at the latter is unmistakable.

Killian grins. “Not a fan, I take it?”

Henry merely shakes his head with an “Ugh!” and Emma rolls her eyes.

“Well,” he says, winking at both, “I love them all. So this is perfect.” He looks at Emma. “Completely unnecessary, you understand. But perfect. Thank you.”

Emma bites her lip and Henry beams.

Both are lovely to watch.

  
  
  


It goes on from there.

They come in, Henry does his homework, Emma leaves on occasion, and they occupy the far corner of the table and the couch so much he has started to think of both as intrinsically theirs.

They bring him a pastry and coffee every day, no matter how much he protests.

So he in turn just keeps ordering pizzas each night Emma runs late. It turns out that she also likes mushrooms. Killian saves her slices, and more often than not, when she returns, she stays to eat them.

It’s nice, sharing food after work, when the library is empty and quiet and they have it all to themselves. Henry is usually off in his corner, and Killian and Emma talk about books. There is nothing dangerous in that. Nothing too personal, nothing too revealing. It feels safe, but it also feels wonderful - to be able to talk about books again with love, with excitement. With something other than a prevailing sense of shame and failure. Listening to Emma doesn’t hurt. She loves books, and spends a long time raving about her list of absolute favorites. It’s a very long list -- her ‘Top Ten’ alone easily spans thirty titles. None of which he has read. All of which he plans to read as soon as possible. 

One evening, when Emma is again running late, Henry asks him to look over his English essay. It’s been so long since anyone has asked him to look over some actual writing, he gets a little choked up.

He has to swallow past the lump in his throat. “What’s the assignment?”

Henry points to the open Google doc on the library computer. “It’s creative writing. Our teacher gave us a phrase and asked us to build a story around it.”

“What’s the phrase?”

Henry wordlessly points to the title. It says,  _ …and then I pulled out my phial of invisibility potion. _

Killian sits down and starts to read. And can’t believe his eyes. Henry can  _ write _ .

The story consists of a single scene, and what a scene it is.  
It starts with a man crossing a desert, thirsty and tired and near the point of giving up, when he suddenly hears a noise to his left. And then behind him. And then to his right. By the time the man in the story hears the noise directly in front of him, Killian is completely hooked. The man stops, realizing that he is surrounded by  _ something _ , when the sand in front of him parts to reveal a monster with the body of a snake and the head of a dragon, fangs dripping poison. The monster starts to pull its body tightly around the man, who, with his last bit of strength pulls out the phial of invisibility potion and drinks it.

And this is where the real brilliance comes in. Henry takes a moment to describe the nature of the monster itself, specifically the fact that for this creature things which it cannot see do not exist. Because it lives buried in the sand, constantly enveloped, its sense of touch has faded and only sight and sound remain. The monster - confused at no longer being able to see its prey and whipping its head around looking for the man - lets its body grow slack and the man escapes quickly and quietly. 

“Henry,” Killian looks up at the boy. “This is incredible.”

Henry’s smile is shy - and completely happy. “Do you really think so?”

“Yes, lad. It’s good. Really good.”

Henry bites his lip. Just like his mother. “Good enough to hand in?”

“Definitely.” Killian realizes just how much he means it. “You have truly gotten to the heart of this assignment, I believe.” Henry beams. “You have kept it simple and yet riveting, and choosing to just write a scene, instead of trying to construct a whole story weighed down by tons of exposition, was a stroke of brilliance. You throw your reader into the middle of the action, you explain just enough to let them understand where they are and who your protagonist is, you build tension and excitement immediately, set up the premise clearly and then pay it off with that phrase about the invisibility potion. That phrase is the climax of your story, as it should be.”

Killian smiles brightly at Henry, who now looks puzzled, and it’s only then that Killian realizes he’s talking to a 4th grader. He shakes his head and smirks at his own analysis.

“That means it’s good, Henry. Definitely good enough to hand in.” Henry smiles again. “The only thing I’m asking myself is whether the monster should have a name. Wouldn’t the hero of your story know what it’s called? He must have heard of it before, since he knew how to defeat it. And brought the phial just for that purpose, I assume.”

Henry’s face scrunches up. “I never thought of that, but that makes perfect sense. It should definitely have a name.” He looks at Killian. “Can you help me think of one?”

“I can try. What kind of sounds do you think the name should have?”

“Sounds?”

“The sounds letters make can be descriptive,” Killian nods at the boy. “For example, think of the words we use to describe the sounds animals make. Snakes  _ hiss _ . That’s pretty much the sound they actually make.”

Henry’s eyebrows draw together. “Cows moo,” he mumbles. “Cats meow. Yeah, I get that.” He bites his lip again. “There should be hissing in the name, because the body is a snake, but also roaring, because the head is a dragon,” he says with conviction.

“Let’s have some fun with it.” Killian winks at him. “Pull up Google translator and let’s see what some of these words mean in Latin. Or Greek.”

“Or Chinese!” Henry beams again. “Lots of dragons are Chinese!”

  
  


*

  
  
  


When Emma walks in an hour later (Killian has taken to giving her his spare keys when she leaves right before closing), she finds them in a deep discussion on whether the word  _ vrychithmós _ can be simplified into something vaguely pronounceable, and whether  _ Nùhǒu _ or  _ sfýrigma  _ carries more weight.

“What on earth are you talking about?”

Both heads snap up to look at her, wearing identical sheepish grins. It throws her for a complete loop.

Henry says, “Hey mom”, while Killian nods at her as his grin morphs into a happy little smile.

She gives them both a raised eyebrow. “Seriously. What are you talking about?”

Henry launches into a convoluted explanation involving his English essay, and the importance of sounds when creating a name, and that they have been trying to build a name for his monster from the Google translations of ‘hiss’ and ‘roar’.

Emma has a hard time listening.

All she can see is that her son is excited and happy, and that the quiet librarian next to him is enjoying every moment of it. It fills her with gratitude. And absolute panic.

And then she sees the bowls on the table, next to a half-empty tupperware container.

“You made dinner?” She sees him wilt before her accusatory tone, but she can’t help herself.

The tips of his ears grow bright red, and he reaches up to scratch behind one of them. It’s a gesture she has observed many times, and by now she knows it signifies extreme nervousness on his part.

“I had l-leftover eggplant parmesan at home,” he stutters. “I-- I thought I’d bring it in instead of pizza.”

She doesn’t believe him for a second. These are not leftovers. He cooked. He cooked for her son.

Panic and gratitude ratchet up in equal measure.

“I’m sorry if I overstepped.” His voice is quiet and unsure. “Henry asked me to look at his essay, and I didn’t see the harm in--- I won’t do it again if it bothers you, I promise. And I don’t have to--- we’ve just been eating pizza a lot, and I thought--- I’m sorry. We can just order pizza next time.” 

_ Next time _ .

Everything inside her wants to tell him in no uncertain terms that there won’t be a next time. But the truth is that she and Henry have nowhere else to go, and she doesn’t want to leave her son alone in the apartment at night, not in their neighborhood. And Killian looks contrite and ashamed, as if he did something wrong. When all he has done is help her out, time and time again. All he has done is help Henry out, feeding him dinner and helping him with his homework.

Emma bites down hard on all the scathing things jostling at the tip of her tongue, and takes a deep breath. It’s not Killian’s fault that she hates this with every fiber of her being. That her natural instinct is to not let Henry get attached to anyone, because people will eventually disappoint him and leave.

Killian has done nothing wrong.

She exhales slowly and tries to smile. “Eggplant parmesan? You got Henry to eat  _ vegetables _ ?”

“It was awesome,” Henry says, completely oblivious to the war raging inside Emma and turns to Killian. “What do you think about  _ sfýrigiss? _ Give it a hissing sound at the end? ”

Killian is still looking at Emma, his eyes uncertain, like he’s skating on very thin ice. “I think that’s a great idea, and that whatever you decide will be a fearsome name in the end. Worthy of your monster.”

Emma smiles and shakes her head. It’s time for a peace offering.

“I don’t think the name roars enough,” she says, pulling up a chair. “We can think of something more powerful.” She raises one eyebrow at Killian. “Is there some food left for me? Any vegetable my son deems ‘awesome’ I have to try.”

  
Killian’s smile as he nods and pushes tupperware and cutlery towards her is so full of joy and relief, it makes the panic inside her subside.

Just the tiniest bit.

But enough to make it less panic than gratitude.

  
  


*

  
  
  


A week later Emma shows up holding a six pack of beer. Craft beer. In bottles.

Killian can’t  _ not _ smile.

“We saved you some pasta,” Henry says, not looking at Emma as he takes the bottle of soda she hands him, and then retreats to his corner of the couch. He’s in the middle of  _ The Prisoner of Azkaban _ , and has been uncommunicative for days. The last time they tried to get him to put the book down and have dinner he actually growled at them.  _ Growled _ . He has also let it slip that his eleventh birthday is later that month, and Killian has already ordered him a beautiful hardcover set. Every kid should have his own  _ Harry Potters _ .

Emma opens her bottle and takes a large swig. “So Henry tells me you were an English professor.”

It is the first time she has broached a personal subject. It’s a heady mix of lovely and extremely uncomfortable.

He nods. “I was.”

She takes her time twirling spaghetti onto her fork before she goes on. “What made you stop? May I ask?”

He’s been dreading that question. He’s been asked about this many times, and he never ever tells the truth. He has a whole slew of colorful excuses, which range from slight distortions of actual facts to outright lies. But strangely enough, he doesn’t want to lie to her.

So he answers honestly. “Burn out.”

Her eyes go wide in surprise. “English professors can get burned out?”

He nods again. “They can.”

She puts the fork in her mouth and rolls her eyes as she begins to chew. “ _ Damn  _ this is good,” she mumbles, her mouth full. She swallows and immediately digs back in. “Are you sure you weren’t a chef?”

He grins. It’s so lovely to see her enjoy his cooking. It’s so lovely to see her enjoy anything. When Emma Swan likes something, she does so wholeheartedly. It’s like a mask drops from her face and the tension bleeds out of her bearing and he can see the person beneath the carefully controlled exterior, carefree and happy and able to take pleasure from the little things in life. Her face lights up eating his pasta just like it did when she talked about her favorite books. More even, now that he’s no longer such a stranger. 

“I am quite certain I have never been a chef,” he grins. “Quite certain no one has ever accused me of being a chef.”

“They should,” she mutters around another mouthful. “You may have missed your calling.”

It hits him where it hurts the most, that sentence, and he can’t stop his face from reflecting it. He knows he doesn’t have a poker face, much as he would like to, and he can see it the moment she notices.

Her eyes go wide and she puts one hand in front of her mouth in distress. “Killian, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean it. I’m sure you’re----”

“It’s all right, love,” he grinds out. “Don’t worry about it.”

Her voice is soft as she continues. “I’m really sorry. You don’t have to tell me anything. But--- I’d really like to know what happened. How you ended up here.”

He sighs. He might as well get it over with. “Have you ever heard the expression  _ publish or perish _ ?”

She shakes her head no.

“Well, when I started out, I was going to make a name for myself in academia. I went to Oxford to get a doctorate in Philology.”

Her eyebrows fly up, and he can tell she is trying to hold back the question, trying not to interrupt him. It makes him smile. “Philology is the study of language. Specifically in literary texts, as well as oral and written historical sources. It’s basically where linguistics, literary criticism, and history ‘hang out and party’. As you Americans call it.”

Emma snorts a laugh. “We Americans do say that. Especially when we talk about linguistics and literary criticism and history. Big partiers, those three.”

Her eyebrow is quirked and there’s a gently teasing smile tugging at the corners of her mouth, and--- has she always been this beautiful? Or is it just tonight, with her body relaxed and her green eyes sparkling and a fork full of pasta halfway to her mouth that he can see her clearly?

Killian laughs. “You should see them walk into a bar and cause mayhem.” He shakes his head. “For me, it was mainly because I loved Tolkien and fancied myself quite the linguist. I did my dissertation on the influence of language on the creation of myth and belief in the  _ Lord of the Rings _ and the  _ Silmarillion _ . I didn’t just love Tolkien, you understand. I wanted to be Tolkien. The next Tolkien.” He takes a deep breath. “Let’s just say that didn’t work out.” He looks at her. “So I ended up here instead, thousands of miles away, the proud owner of a library science degree, trying to keep chaos at bay and storytime scheduled.” 

There’s empathy in her eyes. “That had to be hard for you.”

He laughs, and hears just how helpless it sounds. “To resign myself to the rubbish heap of history? Yeah. A bit.” 

She grins. “You’re not the ‘rubbish heap of history’. That’s just your pride messing with you.” Then she looks straight at him. “I’ve seen what you do here. You inspire kids to read. You help people with their job applications. You help them study for their GEDs. You teach the elderly how to use the internet, and you help those whose first language isn’t English understand important forms, and you help young people with their resumes.” She puts a hand on his arm. It’s warm, and firm, and reassuring. “You make a difference.”

He can’t speak. There’s a lump in his throat. There is nothing he can say in the face of such sincerity.

All he can do is nod. And surreptitiously wipe the corners of his eyes. Which are not wet. At all.

She busies herself eating her pasta and looking at Henry and checking her phone, and he’s eternally grateful for that.

After at least three long pulls, which empty his beer, he has himself together enough to return inquiries.

“Henry said you wanted to be a cop?”

She shakes her head. “That kid talks too much.” He merely raises an eyebrow at her until she starts to laugh. “Yes, I know, I’m a hypocrite.”

He nods. And waits.

When she goes on, her voice is quiet. “I did want to be a cop. But I never finished high school.”

He raises both eyebrows this time. “You do realize we can help you get your GED, right? I mean, you  _ just _ mentioned it yourself.”

She shrugs. “I also did a stint in jail. They frown on that when you apply to the Academy.”

He shakes his head in disbelief. “You’ve been in jail?”

“Juvie. But my sentence extended past my 18th birthday, and so my records were never sealed.” She bites her lip. He’s learning that it’s a sign of extreme discomfort. And shame. “And I had Henry while I was inside. So when I got out I had no skills, no diploma, a record, and a newborn. Not exactly ideal circumstances.”

He wants to slap himself for making his own story into a tale of woe, because what she’s letting peek through is so much worse than anything he’s ever had to go through.

“What about your family?” It’s a whisper. His voice is not working.

She smiles. It’s self-deprecating. “No family. System kid.”

He can’t stop himself from taking her hand. She lets him. “I am so sorry, Emma. How on earth did you---- just how?”

Still that self-deprecating smile. “The usual way, I guess. Slow and cumbersome. We lived in a shelter at first. I didn’t know what to do - Henry was so little, and I just--- I had---”

She takes a deep breath to steady herself, and from the corner of the couch comes Henry’s voice. “She became a superhero.  _ That’s _ what happened.” He fixes Killian with something close to a death glare.

Emma throws her head back and laughs a watery laugh.

“Not quite kid. You know I lucked out.” She looks at Henry and then back at Killian. “I applied for a desk job with a PI and he didn’t mind that I came with a baby. He was really cool about it. Said it didn’t hamper my ability to file and answer phones if I brought the kid to work. Saved my life.”

“David’s cool like that,” comes Henry’s voice again.

Killian feels a small spike of something that’s dangerously close to jealousy.

Jealousy?

He shakes his head at himself.

Meanwhile Emma turns to her son, and her voice grows firm. “Henry David Swan, either come join the conversation or stay where you are and read. I’m done with the peanut gallery.”

Henry rolls his eyes, but then goes back to his book.

_ Henry David Swan _ . She named her son after this man. The jealousy spikes again, and Killian has to take a deep breath and tell himself to get a grip.

“Anyway, once Henry started kindergarten, David introduced me to bail bonds. I’ve been tracking skips ever since. It’s not exactly nine to five - as you may have noticed - but it keeps a roof over our heads.” 

Emma looks at him again and squares her shoulders as if for battle. “That’s thanks to you, too, you know. You’ve saved us from getting evicted more than once.”

_ From getting evicted _ . This is not a problem Killian has had to deal with. Ever.

His lovely academic existence in a faraway country has never forced him to confront nor contemplate not having a place to live.

And what has he contributed that was so great? Watched her son for a few hours? Provided a few meals?

“It was nothing, love.”

She squirms, but her eyes stay clear. “Yeah, well, you did. David used to watch Henry after school, but he’s married now and they have a newborn, so we started coming here instead.”

The spike of jealousy subsides so fast, Killian almost laughs at himself.

Emma sighs. “I can’t leave Henry alone at night, so I try to meet all the skips I bring in for Happy Hour somewhere, and then I try to make it back here as fast as I can, but you’ve seen yourself I don’t always make it. And I know he’s safe here. So--- thank you.”

There is that sincere thanks again. He is powerless before it. He just looks at her until she takes another sip of her beer and breaks the spell, and then starts the long and laborious process of getting Henry away from his book and ready to leave.

It takes a while.

When they’re about to walk out, he has gathered his thoughts enough to stop her in the doorway. Henry is already bounding down the front steps, while they stand arrested, his hand on her arm. She is warm, and solid, and she doesn’t squirm away from his touch, even though she looks at him with something close to apprehension.

“It’s all right, Emma,” he says, and somehow he knows instinctively that this one time he has hit on exactly the right thing to say. “You’re not a burden, neither one of you. I like spending time with you both. It’s not a bother. It’s a joy.”

Her eyes get really shiny for a moment, and she clears her throat several times. In the end she just nods. “We have to get home,” she whispers, and he knows that there are many other things she wants to say, but can’t.

He’s grateful for it.   
One more sincere thanks and he’s liable to do something extremely stupid.

Like try to kiss her.


	2. Chapter 2

Three days later Henry walks into the library alone.

Killian doesn’t notice at first, because he is busy setting up preschool storytime, but once he has gotten everyone settled, he notices Henry by himself on the couch.

And none of Emma’s things on the table.

And it’s Saturday. They should both have been here hours ago.

He walks over to the boy. “Henry? Did your mother leave already?”

“She’s not here,” he says, barely looking up. “She’s at home, sleeping.”

“What?” Killian puts his hand on Henry’s book, forcing him to meet his eyes.

Henry groans with impatience. “She threw her back out, and got some medication that makes her sleep all day. And I was done with  _ Azkaban _ .” He says it as if that explained everything.

“Did you come here by yourself?” Killian’s mind is racing. He doesn’t know where they live, but he can take an educated guess that it involves a subway ride.

“I really needed the next book.” Henry sounds defiant.

“Henry,” Killian tries to keep his voice very calm. “Does your mother know you’re here?”

“I left her a note on the kitchen table.” Uncertainty creeps into his voice. “Which she might not see, because she can’t get up….”

Killian has to stop himself from shaking the boy’s shoulders. “Henry,” he says, still as calmly as he can. “We have to call her.” Henry just nods. He looks much smaller now than he did just a few moments ago. He seems to have realized that he did something he was not supposed to do.

Killian digs out his phone.

Emma answers on the fourth ring. “Killian?” It sounds slightly slurred.

“Henry is here.”

“At the  _ library? _ ” She sounds much more alert now.

“Yes, love. He showed up a little while ago. I didn’t want you to worry.”

“He went to your library by himself?”

“Apparently he desperately needed  _ The Goblet of Fire _ . I called as soon as I realized you’re not here with him.”

“Thank you.” He can hear Emma take a very deep breath. “Is he OK?”

“He’s fine. I can escort him back home, but not until after we close, I’m sorry.”

“Please don’t apologize,” she says. “This is not your fault.” Another deep breath. “Can I talk to him?”

Killian hands the phone to Henry, who looks like he’d rather tangle with the monster from his story.

What follows is a terse conversation, during which Henry says nearly nothing save  _ OK _ , and  _ yes _ , and  _ I’m sorry, mom _ . The last one he says several times.

Finally he hands the phone back to Killian. “She wants to talk to you again.”

“I am so sorry to cause so much trouble.” Emma sounds exhausted.

“It’s no bother, love. Would you like me to bring Henry back when we close?”

“I don’t want to put you out,” she replies, and he can hear her trying so hard not to have to ask for this favor. “Maybe I can call David---”

He cuts her off. “Emma, no. Please don’t worry. I meant it when I said that it wasn’t a bother.”

“OK.” She sighs. “Thank you for taking care of him.”

“Go back to sleep. We will see you soon.”

  
  


He looks at Henry as he puts his phone back in his pocket. His shoulders are slumped and he looks a picture of defeat.

Killian crouches down before him. “Henry?”

The boy looks up. There are tears in his eyes and he’s chewing his lip. “I messed up,” he says, his voice wavering. “I didn’t mean to.”

The first drops start to roll down his cheeks and he hangs his head again. “I just--- She’s been asleep all day, and I was done with my book, and I--- and I---”

The tears are flowing in earnest now, and Killian is just as powerless before the boy’s distress as he is before the mother’s sincerity. He opens his arms and Henry leaps forward. He clings to Killian like a spider monkey and sobs into his shoulder. Killian simply rubs his back and makes shushing noises and waits for Henry to cry himself out.

  
  
  


It takes them two trains and almost three blocks on foot to get Henry back home, and the boy is subdued the entire way. Killian meanwhile is trying not to think of all the things which could have happened to him on his way to the library. Especially since they are now officially in the bad part of town.

The building Henry enters has a broken front door, graffiti all over the walls, and no elevator. They walk up four floors of intermittently-lit stairwell until they finally get to an apartment door that looks like it’s been busted in at least once. There are actual splinters along the doorframe.

“Mom?” Henry’s voice is soft as he enters and flips on the light.

It’s a shoebox.

The living room is filled almost completely with the pulled-out part of a sofa bed. Emma is lying on it, just waking up. She tries to sit up and falls backwards, groaning, and then holds both hands in front of her face.

“Killian,” her voice comes out muffled from behind her palms, “I didn’t know you were coming in.”

“I’m sorry,” he says, and tries to look away. “I just wanted to make sure the lad got all the way here.”

Emma lowers her hands, and shakes her head. “Yes, of course. I’m sorry.” She carefully maneuvers herself upright.

“We brought you dinner.” Henry’s voice is quiet.

Emma wipes her face. “You did?”

Killian nods, and Emma looks embarrassed. “I’m sorry for this mess.” Her hands helplessly gesture to encompass the cramped space.

“It’s all right.” Killian doesn’t know what to say, but he does not want Emma to be embarrassed about her home. And it’s not messy, just small. A table is pushed against the sole window, a folding chair on each end. Next to it is a stove with two burners and a tiny little sink. At the far end are two doors, and Henry walks over to one of them.

“Can I show Killian my room?”

Emma looks at her son. “Give me the book first.”

Henry’s lower lip trembles.

“You know what you did.” Her voice is soft, but firm. “Now give me the book.”

Slowly Henry unzips his backpack and hands her  _ The Goblet of Fire _ .

“It’s just two weeks,” she says. “Not the rest of your life.”

Henry nods and Emma smiles. “Now go show him.”

Henry’s room is tiny. And lovely. His bed is painted blue, and so are the walls, and there are stuffed floor pillows all across the carpet. His walls are full of maps and pictures of far off places - the Eiffel Tower, the Golden Gate bridge, the Taj Mahal, Big Ben, the Twelve Apostles, and many more. When Henry switches on his bedside lamp, glowing outlines of fish start to dance across the walls.

“This room is amazing.” It’s nothing but the truth. Killian wants to sink down into the beanbag chair and just watch the lights move. It’s beautiful.

Henry throws his backpack on the bed. “One day we’re going to go to all these places and see all of these things,” he says, pointing at the pictures.

Killian nods. “I hope you do. And I hope that when you come back you’ll tell me about them.”

Henry’s eyes grow serious. “I promise.”

It’s disarming, standing in the middle of these hopes and dreams and receiving a solemn promise from a 10-year-old. It’s a painful reminder of his own dashed hopes and dreams, and he has to swallow repeatedly to combat the lump in his throat.

“Thank you,” he croaks, and then lifts the bag in his left hand. “I’m going to go give your mother the food.”

He nearly flees from the room.

  
  


Outside Emma has re-assembled the sofa and stands off to its left, her hand on the armrest, her breathing heavy.

“Are you all right love?” She looks like she’s in pain. “Shouldn’t you be lying down?”

She smiles tightly at him, and slowly lowers herself to the couch. “I’ll be fine.”

It doesn’t sound very convincing.

He sits down beside her. “Emma?”

She rolls her eyes. “It’s an old injury. It still seizes up sometimes. I’ll be fine in a day or two.”

“What happened?”

“Fell down some concrete steps,” she says succinctly. “Hurt my lower back.”

From the tone of her voice he knows not to ask more.

He points at the plastic bag in his hand. “I made chicken fricassée. If you’d like some?”

She shakes her head and barks a helpless laugh.

“What’s so funny?”

“Oh Killian,” she says. “You’re impossible. For weeks now, I’ve been meaning to tell you off for cooking. For feeding us all the time. For helping Henry with his homework.”

He is truly confused now. “Did I do something wrong?”

She rolls her eyes. “No, you didn’t, and that is the problem. You just keep doing everything right. It’s driving me crazy.” Then she laughs at his puzzled expression. “You honestly don’t see it?”

“See what?” He’s at a complete loss.

“Never mind.” Emma shakes her head. “And anyway - it’s not like I can say anything after today. I’m not exactly winning mother of the year.” She sighs. “Not after forgetting to feed my son, and leaving him so bored that he took off by himself to go get a book.”

Finally. Something that makes sense.

“Emma,” he says softly. He looks at her, trying to sit straight, clearly in pain, embarrassed and guilty, and finds he can’t stand it. “You did nothing wrong.”

She barks another laugh, and this one is bitter.

“You’re human. And you’re not invincible. You get to have a bad day, just like the rest of us.”

She bites her lip, and before he can stop himself, he takes one of her hands. 

“You’re allowed to ask for help, you know.”

She looks down for a long time, just breathing slowly, not saying a word.

When she looks back up, her eyes are sad, yet determined. “Thanks for bringing him back.”

There’s a wealth of meaning in that one sentence and all Killian can do is nod.

Then she wipes her eyes, and her voice grows bright. “Now tell me what on earth is chicken fricassée?”

  
  
  
  


Three hours later Henry is fast asleep and they’re still on the couch.

Along with dinner, Killian brought a flask of whisky, which he insists is a cure for all ailments, and of which Emma has now taken three long pulls. Or maybe five. She may have lost track, but she feels better, and she prefers whisky to her medication.

She really hates those pills, because they make her both loopy and sleepy, and neither one of those are things Emma enjoys. The whisky is much better instead.

She looks at Killian, relaxed and at ease in her crappy apartment, and at the remnants of one of the most delicious meals she’s ever eaten. That man can seriously cook.

But what’s better is that he has not judged her, not for one single moment.

He positively  _ gushed _ over Henry’s room, was deeply impressed with the way she has set up the furniture to maximize space, loved the fact that she painted Henry’s walls, as well as his bed, and the tiles in the bathroom, and the backsplash in the kitchen. All of it with honest enthusiasm and not a hint of condescension. He meant every single word.

It’s messing with Emma’s equilibrium more than the whisky.

Emboldened by her fourth - or is it sixth? - sip from the flask, she decides to go for answers. “Tell me what happened.”

God, the confusion on his face is endearing. His eyebrows rise. “What happened when?”

“I might not know what Philology is, exactly. I might not know anything about academia, or professorships, or  _ publish or perish _ . But I do know that smart people like you don’t go to Oxford of all places on a lark and get a PhD just for the fun of it, only to end up in a metropolitan library in the former colonies.”

Killian laughs out loud.

“You’re bloody priceless,” he finally says, wiping his eyes. “And technically it’s not a PhD. In Oxford they call it a  DPhil, which is exactly the same as a PhD, just with a different name. Because they’re  _ Oxford _ . ”

That last part is said with actual disdain, and he grows serious again. “You’re a smart lass, Emma Swan. And you’re right, people generally do not get a doctorate because they have nothing better to do on a Saturday night.” 

Emma looks straight at him. “So what happened?”

His eyes grow sad. Purely and simply sad. “I failed.”

He hangs his head and falls silent, and Emma gives him a minute before she asks. “Failed?”

It takes him a long time to answer. When he does his voice is low and defeated. “I told you I loved language and history and myth and legend. I loved Tolkien. I wanted to follow in his footsteps. I was going to get at the heart of his writing, and then I was going to write the next Seminal Novel. Literature for the ages.” He laughs, and it sounds acerbic and joyless. “Remember my dissertation? I examined the influence of language on the creation of myth and belief in the  _ Lord of the Rings _ and the  _ Silmarillion _ . I don’t know what I was thinking.”

Emma is lost. He is talking about things so far outside of her experience, she has difficulty following. But one thing she knows: This is a raw, bleeding wound, that has not even begun to heal. On instinct she takes his hand. He looks at her, still with sadness and shame. But he does not pull his hand from hers.

“I finished my dissertation together with the first draft of what was to be my novel. No mean feat, I tell you, to finish both at the same time. It nearly killed me.” He takes a long sip of whisky and his voice gets so quiet she can hardly hear it. “It should have killed me. If there were any justice in this world, it would have.”

Part of Emma thinks he can’t possibly be serious, and part of her does not like just how serious he sounds, and all of her feels a powerful surge of empathy towards this tortured soul on her couch.

She squeezes his hand. “Did they not like it?”

The laugh that bursts from Killian at that question is terrible. It is the opposite of what a laugh should sound like. The opposite.

“Well, since I had come to the conclusion that language doesn’t matter at all, and it is the innate human desire to explain the inexplicable that creates legends and myths independent of expression, I think it’s safe to say they  _ hated _ it.”

“Did they--- did they not let you have your degree?”

Killian shakes his head. “No, they let me defend my dissertation, and they gave me the doctorate. And then I published it.” He takes a long, long pull from the flask. “And  _ then _ I perished. The backlash was unbelievable. I had de-throned their king. I was eviscerated in every journal in every country with a university that had a linguistics department. My findings were meticulously taken apart and discredited. I became the laughing stock of academia. My publisher sent back the first draft of my novel saying that if I was going to rip off  _ The Hobbit _ , could I please learn to write first. And then Tolkien fans got a hold of my dissertation online and I was battered and denounced across all social media sites in existence. I even got death threats.” 

Emma nearly chokes. “ _ Death threats? _ ”

“Yeah, well-- people take their Tolkien seriously.”

“Seriously enough to threaten your  _ life? _ That’s insane!” She squeezes his hand again, because she can feel it shaking in hers. “Were you scared?”

“Well, not of the threats, not exactly. But the whole thing did make me leave the country. With my tail firmly between my legs.”

He breaks off abruptly and his shoulders slump, and Emma can’t help thinking how  _ small  _ he looks, even here on her sofa, years later and thousands of miles removed from the incident.

“I am so sorry.”

He barks another laugh. “It doesn’t matter.” He looks up, still with those sad eyes. “That’s the best part. It doesn’t matter at all.” He tries to smile at her. “That’s what I realized back when you told me your story. I failed more spectacularly than anyone else in my circles in recent history, but it’s nothing compared to what you have overcome.” His eyes grow soft. “You are amazing, Emma Swan, and you should start to believe it. But most of all, you showed me that everything that happened to me doesn’t matter at all. Even if I never write another word.”

She starts to protest, but he cuts her off.

“Thank you for that.” 

God, he means it. He really, really means it. And he’s so close. Somehow they have moved towards each other on the sofa, and now his face is inches from hers. His tongue comes out to wet his lower lip, and she can’t look away.

“Thank you so much,” he says, his voice almost inaudible, and then he leans forward and his lips touch hers. They’re soft and pliant, just tasting, just feeling, and then his hand comes up, fingertips whisper along her jawline, and Emma stops thinking and kisses him back, because it feels so, so good to be kissed by him.

When he pulls back his eyes are nearly black and he’s breathing hard.

Her emotions are in turmoil, and she doesn’t know what to say, what to think, what to do, and he takes her hand again.

“This was not a mistake,” he whispers, and it sounds broken and desperate. “Please Emma, please don’t say this was a mistake.”

And how can she, when he is here, on her sofa, with his broken past and the dinner he cooked? When he is looking at her afraid of what she will say, afraid she will retreat behind her comfortably high walls and leave him outside, alone?

She’s afraid, too - afraid of the future, and afraid of hurting Henry, and afraid of hurting the man next to her, but one thing she is absolutely certain of: This? This was not a mistake.

  
  


When he leaves they spend minutes kissing good-bye in the doorway, and then Emma goes back to sit on the couch, trying to find a comfortable position and unable to wipe the smile from her face.

And then Henry comes out of his room and sits down next to her.

“What on earth are you doing up, kid? It’s past two in the morning!”

Henry shrugs. “I heard his story.”

Emma can feel her face scrunch, mortified. “Is that all you heard?”

Henry fixes her with his ‘grown-ups are idiots’ look. “Mom,” he lets out a long-suffering sigh that would have done credit to a put-upon trophy wife. “I’m ten, not stupid. You like him. He likes you. I like him. We’re all good.”

Emma shakes her head. Sometimes he’s ten going on forty. “Are you sure?”

“ _ God _ , yes, mom. He’s the first guy that likes you that really likes  _ you _ .”

And sometimes she forgets what an old soul her son really is. “What makes you say that?”

He rolls his eyes. “I can tell. He looks at you when he talks to you. And he’s interested in what you have to say. He actually listens before he answers. To me, too, by the way.”

Emma can’t help it, the stupid grin breaks back out across her face. Because Henry is right. God help her, he’s  _ right _ .

“But that’s not why I came out here,” Henry goes on. “I came out here because I have a plan.”

“A plan?” Emma’s head instantly fills with scenarios that echo every movie plot in which kids try to meddle in their single parents’ lives in order to engineer a relationship. And the horror that comes with it. “What kind of plan?”

“A plan to make Killian happy again.”

Emma looks at her son in confusion. “So this has nothing to do with somehow throwing us together?”

“ _ Mom! _ ” Henry is indignant. “What you two do with your grown-up time is none of my business!”

Emma laughs out loud and pulls her son into her lap.

“Fine, OK. Then tell me what this plan is all about.”

  
  
  
  



	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has been my first event, and i absolutely loved it.
> 
> All thanks -- ALL OF THEM -- go out to the amazing @captainsjedi for organizing the event, @shireness for being the library inspiration, @mariakov81 for the *incredible* art (PLEASE go check it out on tumblr), and as always, the incomparable @profdanglais, without whom there would NOT have been this story. You think i'm kidding. i am NOT.

  
  


When they walk into the library on Monday afternoon, Emma is nervous right up until she sees Killian’s face. Because when he catches sight of them, when he catches sight of  _ her _ , he smiles a small, shy, slightly apprehensive smile that is also so very happy that her wariness dissipates in an instant.

And she simply smiles back.

The relief that spreads across his face is unmistakable.

When he finally makes his way over to them, his eyes full of question, she nods and looks up in clear invitation, and he leans down to kiss her, warm and soft and wonderful.

And much too short.

He sits down and asks Henry about school and his homework and while he listens he puts his hand on Emma’s neck, rubbing it gently, and it feels--- right. Like it belongs there.

She smiles at him every time he looks at her, his eyes soft and fond, his expression full of joy, and he seems to understand that she’s telling him that she is not backing down.

Not from this.

Not from them.

  
  


And then her phone beeps. The skip she’s been tracking is suggesting they meet at a bar all the way downtown. At 8PM, he can’t make it before then. She groans.

Henry stops in the middle of his story, and they both look at her. 

Killian’s hand keeps rubbing her neck. “Something wrong, love?”

Emma holds up the text for Killian to see. She really needs this catch. But it means she won’t be back until almost midnight, and she can’t---

“I can escort Henry home after we close,” he says. As if it was the most natural, obvious thing in the world. “And stay with him until you get back.”

She shakes her head. “I can’t ask you to do that.”

The look he gives her. Puzzled and just a little bit vexed. “And why not?”

Her voice gets quiet. This is important. “I don’t want to-- I don’t know, take advantage of you. I don’t want you to think that  _ I _ think you’re a convenient--- ”

“Emma.” His voice is just as quiet, and his expression relaxes. His hand stills on her neck, just his thumb continues to rub small circles. It feels lovely. “You and Henry are not a bother.” His eyes are serious. “I’m happy to spend time with Henry.” He quirks a small smile. “And I’m happy to spend time with you.”

Her breath catches.

He really means it.

Somehow she had not expected  _ this _ .

He turns to Henry. “Are you all right with that?”

Henry nods and Killian’s hand slides over to squeeze her shoulder. “Then it’s settled. We shall have a boys’ night.”

He pats her shoulder one more time for good measure and then goes to explain to an impatient-looking woman why the scanner did not scan her black-and-white photo in color.

.

While Emma tries to wrap her head around the fact that Killian just might truly be in this for real.

  
  
  
  


Henry and Killian go grocery shopping on the way and he teaches the boy how to make pasta primavera. They have fun cooking and dinner is delicious, but when they’re done eating, Henry looks subdued.

“Missing your book?”

Henry nods, and then looks up. “You couldn’t maybe let me have it for a little bit?”   
Killian laughs out loud.

“I’d never tell mom!”

“No, lad, I can’t. Emma would skin me alive.” Killian shakes his head. “And besides, I’m not about to undermine her decision.”

“ _ Fine _ .” Henry sighs. “In that case, can you tell me a story?”

The answer to that is, of course, no. A hard no. Killian absolutely cannot tell Henry a story, cannot tell anyone a story, if his empty computer screen is anything to go by.

And then he surprises himself by saying, “What kind of story?”

  
  
  
  


“There should be dragons.”

They have done the dishes and moved to the couch, and there is something strangely wonderful about having this boy sitting cross-legged in his corner of the sofa and looking up at him with joyful anticipation and absolute faith in Killian’s ability to come up with something worth telling.

It’s comforting and completely nerve wracking.

“Dragons?”

Henry nods. “Yes. Definitely dragons. And an Evil Queen. Every good story needs an Evil Queen.”

Killian is so far out of his element. “Why is she evil, do you think?”

Henry takes his time answering. In the end his voice is quiet. “She’s probably been hurt.” It’s a big concept for a 10-year-old to grasp. And Killian wonders about the people Henry has encountered in his past, to make him so observant. It’s a reminder of why he wants to be,  _ needs _ to be careful with Emma. With both of them.

Then Henry smiles. “Oh, and magic.  _ Definitely _ magic. Forbidden magic.”

“All right.” Killian leans back and tries to get his thoughts in order. Or rather, to get his thoughts started. Because his mind is blank. He has a vague notion of a forested land of magic, and he can almost picture the dragons, but the Evil Queen is not even a shadow in his stalled, useless imagination, and the dragons remain undefined shapes, just pointlessly circling the far corners of his brain.

He can’t do this.

Henry is still looking at him expectantly, and the sheer weight of his confidence in Killian is rendering every wisp of his thoughts null and void. He shakes his head. He hates disappointing the boy. He tries to concentrate, but nothing comes.

“I think the Evil Queen can rip out people’s hearts,” Henry says. “Because she doesn’t have one herself.”

Killian blinks. “That’s kind of brutal, don’t you think?”

The boy leans forward, eyes far away. “Not like horror-movie rip them out. Just, you know, so she can control people. Oh - and when she’s really mad, she  _ crushes _ them.” He grins.

Killian raises a sarcastic eyebrow. “Yes, that’s much better. Forced subservience first, and  _ then _ death.”

Henry laughs. “She’s the villain! She has to be  _ bad _ . What does subservance mean?”

“SubservIEnce. It means subordination.” Henry gives him a pointed look. “Obedience.”

The boy nods, but Killian is no longer paying attention. A picture starts to form before his inner eye, of a woman scorned and bereft and consumed with hatred. A woman who has suffered, who has endured pain and heartbreak and misery so extreme it turned into loathing and rage and  _ madness _ . A woman who will stop at nothing to make the world around her as dark and tainted as the ruins of her heart.

_ The Evil Queen. _

He’s got her. He can  _ see _ her. He can feel her wrath, can feel the soul-sucking darkness beneath it, can see the red of her perfectly painted lips and the glint of her jewelry.  _ He’s got her. _

And then he begins.

_ Once upon a time there was a kingdom in a faraway land. The kingdom had an ocean to the east and a forest to the west and mountains to the north. Fields and farms stretched between them as far as the eye could see, and the soil was fertile and the weather mild and friendly for most of the year. _

_ In the days of old, the people had known how to dance and make music, they had known joy and prosperity and freedom from fear. Magic had coursed through the veins of this land, had pulsed through the air between all living things, ready for the taking for all those born to use it. There had been stories and laughter and happiness and love. _

_ But that was a long time ago. Before the Evil Queen. _

_ She came down from the mountains one day, out of the blue, like an evil phoenix rising from flame and destruction, and with an army of soldiers she conquered the kingdom. She took the castle and left none alive. _

_ She indentured the people, levied their crops, seized their lands and most of their property; for she had soldiers to feed and subjects to torture. _

_ And she outlawed magic under penalty of death. _

_ For years she ruled with an iron fist and no mercy, and the people forgot what it was like not to be afraid. _

Henry shifts in his seat and curls up against Killian’s side, and he can’t breathe for a moment.

“Go on,” the boy whispers. “This is really good.”

Killian closes his eyes until he can see the blood-soaked ruins of the conquered castle, can feel hopelessness and doom stretch across the land. Until his fingers can feel the yarn he is spinning, and he holds on to that thread, until another image rises and he can see the hero of his story against the horizon.

His voice is quiet as he goes on.

_ And then one day, years into the Queen’s reign, a small boy in a hut in the middle of the woods surprised his mother by lighting the hearth with neither tinder nor match. _

_ He had  _ ** _magic_ ** _ . _

Henry sighs with satisfaction.

  
  
  
  
  


When Emma gets home a few hours later, she finds Killian and Henry asleep on the couch.

Her first reaction is panic. Again.

They look absolutely peaceful, Killian stretched out down the middle, his arm around her son, who is sprawled across his chest. Their breaths are deep and even and almost in sync.

It’s too much.

It’s too soon.

He should not fit into her life as well as he does. He should not like Henry as much as he does. He should not like  _ her _ as much as he does. The only thing Emma knows how to do effectively is push people away, and then---

Oh, this has the potential to hurt Henry so much. When it all falls apart, which it inevitably will, because it always does. Emma’s chest feels like it is screwed tightly into a vise, and she tries to take a few centering breaths, but it doesn’t work because her insides are screaming to  _ get out of this, now _ .

_ NOW _ .

And then Killian opens his eyes.

He blinks a few times to orient himself, and when he catches sight of her a warm smile spreads across his face. Oh  _ god _ , he’s happy to see her. The vise tightens.

His expression grows puzzled and somber the longer he looks at her.

“What’s wrong, love?” His voice is low, and anxious.

“Nothing.” She tries to smile. And fails.

He extricates himself carefully from underneath the sleeping boy and walks over to where she is rooted on the spot. He stops right outside her personal space and makes no move to touch her. But his eyes burn into hers, concerned yet determined, and so very blue.

“Emma.” His eyebrows furrow. “What is it?”

She shakes her head. Her voice is not working. And she wouldn’t be able to tell him what she’s feeling, even if it did.

Very slowly he reaches out and brushes his fingers down her arm. She can hardly feel it. “Is this going too fast for you?”

Her answering laugh hits her out of nowhere.

“You’re  _ impossible _ ,” she whispers. “Can’t you just let me have my mini-breakdown in peace?”

He grins, but his eyes stay serious, and then he lifts her hand, holds it against his heart.   
“I’m sorry if I have overwhelmed you. It was not my intention to--- to just take up residence in your life.” He squeezes her fingers. “I can back off if you need me to. We can do this your way - all of it. If you need time, if you need space, I will--- just let me know and I will give you all of that.” He swallows hard. “Just please, Emma, please, don’t----”

His voice falters, but it doesn’t matter.  _ Please don’t push me away. Please don’t force me to leave. Please don’t go. _ She can hear it as if he were saying it out loud.

Emma takes a deep breath and the vise loosens. Just a bit. But enough.

She stands up on tiptoe and brushes her lips against his. “I’m so sorry,” she whispers. “I don’t mean to be difficult.” She squeezes his fingers, still holding her hand against his hammering heart. “Please be patient.”

His face lights up at her words and he leans in to kiss her. Soft and tender and oh so careful. Then he pulls back and leans his forehead against hers.

“Take all the time you need,” he says, and his voice sounds absolutely certain. “You are worth waiting for, love.”

  
  
  
  


The story grows from there.

Emma catches a difficult case, and so day after day, after he finishes his homework, Henry asks for more. Killian spends hours after closing trying to wrangle the complex web that has become their epic tale; sometimes on the library sofa and sometimes on the couch in Emma’s apartment.

On which he gets to kiss Emma every time she comes home.

The story grows past the mother giving her boy to a pirate to raise, to keep his magic hidden far away across oceans and time. The boy grows up a sailor, exploring the realms beyond the kingdom, and learns to control his magic, and defeats his first dragon. There are scrying orbs and black-clad soldiers and crushed hearts, there are prophecies and powerful magic and an Evil Queen on a rampage.

And then, finally, two weeks later, the story is finished, Evil has been vanquished, and the boy and his mother have reunited. Killian feels elated and empty at the same time. He has done it.

He has told a story.   
Not literature, not a story for the ages, certainly not the next Seminal Novel. But he has told a tale from beginning to end.

The following evening at the library, while Henry is still fighting with his English essay, Emma walks in with a blond man. Henry squeals when he sees the man and runs to give him a hug, and Killian just stands there, with an awkward smile on his face, and tries not to notice the easy way the man and Emma are touching and laughing.

The way Henry lit up at the mere sight of the man.

But then Emma walks over to him and kisses him in that soft, lovely way she has when she’s saying hello, and then turns to the man.

“Killian, this is David.” He should have known. “David, this is Killian.”

They shake hands, each trying to outdo the other in firmness of grip. David’s eyes are tired but sharp, and Killian remembers he’s a private investigator. With a newborn.

“The reason David is here, is that Henry is going to stay with him and Mary Margaret tonight.” Emma looks down at her hands, fidgets for a moment, and then says in a rush, “And the reason he’s staying with them is because I’m here to ask you out on a date. A real date.”

His grin threatens to split his face. She looks up, and god - she is  _ nervous _ . How can she  _ possibly  _ be nervous?

He takes her hand. “I would love that.” Her shoulders slump in relief. 

Killian can see David watching the whole scene from the corner of his eye. He ignores it and squeezes Emma’s hand. “Will you let me pick the restaurant, love? Spoil you a little? Pay for everything?”

That gets him a full-body eyeroll, and then she bursts out laughing.

“ _ Fine _ ,” she says, and now he knows where Henry gets that particular sound of exasperation. “Although I’m not dressed for anything fancy.”

He grins. “You look lovely, and I would take you to the Ritz like that, without batting an eyelash. Not that I’m going to. I can come up with something better.”

Emma’s eyes shine and her smile is wide and unguarded. “I’m sure you can.”

  
  
  


When they leave the library, Killian takes her hand. It’s such a small thing, but it makes her heart beat faster. Halfway through the second subway ride, he folds his fingers through hers, and warmth spreads through her chest. It’s…. nice.

No, not nice. Lovely. Wonderful.

So she just stands there, getting jostled by the subway, with his hand holding hers for all the world to see. 

  
  
  


“Where are we going?” 

They are walking down a street in a working-class neighborhood a good distance from the city center, with small stores, and coffee shops that just sell plain coffee along with handmade pastries, and bars advertising locally-brewed beer.

He smiles at her and squeezes her fingers. “To a restaurant I discovered when I first came here. I used to go there almost every day.” He sighs. “It’s not fancy, and I should probably have picked somewhere more upscale for our first outing, but----”

His voice falters and Emma realizes that he is just as nervous as she is. It’s ridiculous. They’re both being ridiculous.   
  


She stops in her tracks and pulls his hand back until he stands beside her. And then just looks at him. His other hand comes up to scratch behind his ear, and his eyes roam, looking everywhere but her face. He’s honest to god shuffling his feet.

“Killian,” she says. “Look at me.”

He slowly raises his eyes to meet hers. “I just really hope you like it,” he whispers.

“I am going to like it.” She squeezes his fingers. “And the reason I know that is because I’ll be there with you.”

He barks a laugh and his shoulders relax. “Yeah?” His left eyebrow rises.

She smiles at that. “Yeah.”

“That’s good,” he says, pulls her into a warm hug and kisses her, soft and wonderful and as always much too short. But when he steps back, he rubs his nose against hers and his thumb down her jawline, and she nearly melts on the spot. When they start walking again, her hand wraps around his waist as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Which it is.

  
  
  


The restaurant is tiny and cozy, and the most comfortable place Emma has ever been to. The decor is so ugly, it rides the line of cliché and kitsch so hard into the abyss of bad taste that it actually ends up being absolutely charming, and infinitely welcoming. The owner, a rotund man with wild salt-and-pepper hair and shoulders like a linebacker, calls Killian ‘Keeeeellian’, squeezes Emma’s hand nearly to a pulp, and practically shoves them into a circular booth in the corner. He scolds Killian for not having come by in months and pronounces Emma the most beautiful woman he has ever seen, at which point a short, feisty-looking woman walks over and slaps him, laughing, and introduces herself as his wife.

Then come a lot of words Emma doesn’t understand and has never heard before, but Killian nods, and the man smiles and walks back to the kitchen, and the woman brings them something called  _ Ayran _ , which turns out to be cold, salted buttermilk and is absolutely delicious. She also puts plates of fresh cucumbers and tomatoes and cheese on their table, along with a basket of flat bread, and then tells Emma in no uncertain terms that this is just the appetizer, and if Emma fills up on her world-famous tandir (at that she points to the bread and gives Emma a wink), it’s her own fault.

Emma nods, her eyes large and her smile a little lost, and promises leave room for the main course.

When they’re alone again, Killian rubs Emma’s arm. “I know it’s a bit much, but their food is really good, and--”

“Stop.” Emma laughs out loud. “Yes, they’re a handful, but this is perfect.” She looks around. Sees couples, and families, and kids ducking between chairs. Sees an elderly man reading a paper alone being invited to join the two young men at the table next to him. Watches the owner walk from table to table, slapping shoulders and laughing loudly, and his wife navigate the tight spaces and the running kids easily, no matter how full her trays are.

She realizes she hasn’t spoken in minutes and Killian’s hand has been on her arm the whole time, and she smiles at him.

“This is wonderful,” she whispers. And she means it. It really is perfect.

He squeezes her arm and returns her smile. “I’m glad you like it.”

“I love it.” She bites her lip. “Except that I have no idea what we’re going to eat. What food is this?”

He smiles again and takes her hand. “Azerbaijani.”

Emma’s eyes grow wide. “Wow. I have officially no idea what that entails.” She feels a little out of place now. As if the fact that she has never been anywhere but the East Coast, and never did finish high school, and doesn’t know anything about anything is showing. Out loud.

“Emma.” Killian gently grasps her chin and turns her towards him. “Please don’t---” He takes a deep breath. “You look like you think you’re somehow less than all this.”

She rolls her eyes. He has got to stop hitting every nail on the head. It’s annoying. And irritating. And wonderful.

“Please don’t think that. Please don’t think for one second that you aren’t good enough or smart enough or experienced enough.”

He brushes his lips past hers. “You are the smartest and bravest woman I’ve ever met. You have clawed your way from nothing and have raised the most amazing kid I’ve ever had the pleasure of knowing, and trust me when I tell you that in a library you meet a lot of kids. A  _ lot _ .”

His eyes are so serious. Emma can feel how much he wants her to know that he means every word.

“And experiences are meant to be had over the course of a whole life. I know that you know that. Otherwise Henry’s walls would not be full of prospective ones.”

Emma thanks all the gods she does not believe in that their food arrives at that very moment and gives her the chance to surreptitiously wipe the corners of her eyes. Their dinner comes in a large, cast-iron griddle which looks almost like a flat wok, perched atop a small burner. It is filled with roasted chicken, and slices of eggplant and potatoes and tomatoes and peppers, it smells of olive oil and garlic; and somehow each aroma is perfectly distinct, and yet they all blend together, and Emma has never seen anything like it. The owner tells her the dish is called  _ sadj _ and comes in too many variations to name.

His wife brings them black tea in pretty glasses, and sugar cubes which are soft and crumbly and look like fudge, and Killian shows her how to sweeten her tea by dipping a cube into the glass until she likes the taste.

And she loves the taste. Of everything.

They eat until they almost drop, and Killian keeps smiling at her like he’s enjoying her more than the food, and when they finally leave he pulls her into a bear hug the moment they exit the restaurant and kisses her like he’s still  _ starving _ .

When he pulls back he looks at her with his eyes blown wide, scratching that spot behind his ear again.

“My place is just down the block,” he whispers. “Could you--- would you perhaps like a nightcap?”

Emma almost laughs out loud. He looks like the proverbial awkward teenage boy asking if she wants to see his stamp collection. It’s too adorable for words.

But she doesn’t laugh. She nods. And he takes her hand and pulls her down the street almost at a run.

When they enter his apartment, Emma stays his hand halfway to the lightswitch.

“Don’t,” she says, and looks up at his kind face and his fond smile. “I want many things right now, but none of them is a nightcap.”

And for the rest of her life Emma will remember how his answering smile actually lit up a dark room.

  
  
  


The sunrise wakes him up, and for the first time in forever he doesn’t mind that his bedroom faces east. He is curled around Emma who is fast asleep, her breathing calm and deep, her skin warm and inviting.

He buries his nose in her neck and runs his hand slowly up and down her side, until she gurgles softly and turns in his arms and opens her eyes.

Her smile is soft, her voice is a whisper. “Hey.”

“Good morning, love.” It makes him so, so happy. The fact that he gets to say that now. To her. “Sleep OK?”

She stretches, long and languidly, and nods. “I did.” She smiles again, and then turns pensive. “It feels a little unreal.”

He looks at her, but she’s not moving. Not putting distance between them. She’s just voicing a thought, and if he’s honest with himself, he’s thinking the same thing. “I know what you mean.” His voice is low. “But it is real.” Of that he is certain. He lets his fingers wander up her neck, cups the back of her head, and repeats, “I promise you, this is real.”

Her eyes close and she leans forward to kiss him. “Good.”

They don’t talk for another hour.

Just enjoy each other.

  
  
  
  


Three days later it’s Henry’s birthday, and Killian arrives at Emma’s apartment with a dozen cupcakes he absolutely did not bake himself, and the Harry Potter set of hardbacks, which he did try to gift wrap into something resembling a decent present.

The small living room is bursting at the seams. There are ten kids doing battle with the birthday cake and the furniture, and Emma gives him a frazzled kiss while he wipes icing out of her hair, and Henry squeals when he unwraps his present and gives Killian a hug that nearly knocks him over.

“Thank you so much.” The boy’s eyes are huge and earnest and Killian watches him carefully take the books to his room so that “nothing happens to them”.

David is perched on the armrest of the recliner in the corner, on which a woman with short dark hair sits, holding a tiny little infant. When Killian approaches, he introduces his wife Mary Margaret and his son Leo, and smirks.

“It seems Leo can sleep through ten kids raising hell, but not through a quiet night.”

His wife slaps his arm and turns to Killian. “It’s lovely to meet you. Henry has told us so much about you.”

Killian can feel his eyebrows rise nearly to his hairline.

David’s look grows sharp. “He says you’re from England, and that you went to Oxford.”

Killian nods. He doesn’t really know how to have this conversation.

“And Emma told me you had kind of hard time with it there.”

“ _ David! _ ” Mary Margaret’s voice is pure steel, and David actually looks chastised. Then she smiles at Killian. “Emma did not gossip. She gave us no particulars. She just said you had a bit of a hard time back at Oxford and that you now run the library on 6th.” She shakes her head. “And you have to excuse my husband. He has a terrible habit of sticking his nose where it  _ absolutely does not belong _ .”

David ducks his head and mumbles something, to which Mary Margaret replies, “He’s a PI, you know, and he calls it an occupational hazard, but I swear it’s just old-fashioned curiosity. He would have been the biggest gossip of any sewing circle if he’d been born a woman a hundred years ago.”

At that David blushes, but when he looks back up at Killian, his eyes are no less sharp. “I just need you to know that Emma means a lot to us.”

Killian meets his gaze head-on. “She means a lot to me, too.”

Mary Margaret beams at that, but David’s eyes narrow even further. “Just be careful. I know enough about police procedure to have you disappeared without a trace.”

“ _ DAVID! _ ” The slap Mary Margaret gives her husband at that looks neither playful nor gentle. It looks like it actually hurt. She rolls her eyes. “What my husband is trying to say is that we have not seen Emma this happy in a long time, and we wish you all the best.”

Warmth spreads through Killian’s chest like a living thing, and he finds himself beaming at Mary Margaret.

_ Emma is happy. _

_ Emma is happy, because of him. _

It’s the best thing anyone has said to him, ever.

David’s brow relaxes at his wife’s words, and the nod he gives Killian is sincere. “You do seem to be all right.” His voice drops an octave. “Just make sure it stays that way.”

“All I want is to make her happy.” Killian nods and decides to go for broke. “That’s all I want, mate. To make her happy, to make both of them happy. For the rest of my life.”

David whistles and then grins, and for the first time Killian feels the might of an unmitigated David Nolan approval. It’s a heady thing. No wonder Emma worships him.

After all the kids have been picked up, and it’s just the six of them left (counting Leo, who is still fast asleep), Emma sits down next to Killian on the couch.

“Henry and I have something for you,” she says and hands him a USB stick, just as the boy plunks down on the other side of him. They’re both grinning like Cheshire cats.

And he’s confused. “What’s this?”

Emma looks at her son, who is bouncing up and down and looks fit to burst, and says, “Tell him.”

“It’s your book!” Henry’s smile increases by a factor of ten.

Killian can’t help it. His confusion is now shot through with pain, and he knows, he  _ knows _ it’s showing on his face, because Emma takes both of his hands.

“It’s the story you told Henry.” Her voice is soft and gentle, and her eyes never leave his. “He wrote it all down. Apparently every day at the library when he should have been doing his homework.” She gives Henry a pointed look, and he grins back unrepentantly.

It feels like shell-shock. 

“This is your mysterious English essay?” His voice is a whisper. “The essay you wouldn’t let me look at to help you?”

Henry nods, still grinning. “It was a really good story. It deserved to be written down.”

Killian’s hands start to shake, and Emma simply squeezes them. He swallows, but no words come, and he feels wetness gather in the corners of his eyes. David and Mary Margaret over at the table are very obviously fascinated by the remnants of birthday cake on each of their plates.

“And then mom found out and she’s been editing and spell-checking everything, and anyway, you have a book now!” He’s still bouncing up and down with excitement. “Oh, and mom came up with the title! Tell him!”

Emma’s eyes are so soft. “ _ The Heart of the Truest Believer _ .”

He can’t speak. He can’t think. He doesn’t even know what to feel. What they have done for him, it’s so, so big. So overwhelming. The lump in his throat will not go away, and there are now real tears in his eyes.

Henry’s brow furrows and he suddenly looks uncertain. “Did we--- did we do something wrong?”

Killian shakes his head, still unable to speak, and Emma once again squeezes his trembling hands.

“Henry,” she says, “why don’t you go and help David and Mary Margaret get their stuff together?”

He has never been more grateful for a sentence in his entire life, and he realizes what a gift it is to simply be understood.

Henry gets up without protest and Emma cups his face in both of her hands, her thumbs gently wiping away the tears he never noticed rolling down his cheeks, and then she wraps him up in a bear hug until he has pulled himself together.

It takes a while.

When he finally looks up, she just kisses him and says, “By the way, that’s not all.” Then she looks over at Mary Margaret, who nods. “Have I ever told you what MM does for a living?”

He shakes his head, and from across the room Mary Margaret says calmly, “I’m a literary agent. For children’s books.”

  
  
  
  
  


-/-

  
  
  
  


The cursor blinks at the top of an empty page. An empty page he’s been staring at for ten minutes. 

“And how is my favorite librarian this morning?”

He smiles and turns to look at her, still sleepy and rumpled and holding a mug of coffee out to him. He takes it and pulls her down into his lap.

“Good.” He kisses her soundly. “But I can’t wait for my muse to get back. I’m really stuck in the middle of this bloody swamp I just had to invent, apparently.”

She laughs. God, if that isn’t his favorite sound in the morning.

Her hand snakes up his neck and starts to play with the hair at the nape. “When Henry comes back from camp tomorrow, I’m sure you’ll find a way out together.”

He buries his nose in her hair and hm-hmms.

“And I’m sure we can find a few other things to do until then.” She puts down her own mug next to his and leans in to kiss him.

“Oh god, yes,” he murmurs. “That’s a fabulous idea, especially since I don’t have to be at work until ten. What did you have in mind?”

He pulls back and catches her sly grin and feels himself growing hard as a rock within seconds. She moves her hips just a little, just to cause some friction and let him know that she knows he’s ready. But instead of kissing him again, she leans back.

“You know you could probably write full time, if you wanted to.”

It’s true. The book was a moderate success, and he and Henry are working on the sequel. Henry’s name will be right next to his again, because Killian feels they are both the authors. When Emma first found out he had given Henry the co-author credit, she cried.

More than when he told her he loved her for the first time.

More than when he surprised them with plane tickets to go to London over Christmas.

More than when Henry finally got to see Big Ben.

They had not gone to Oxford. When he apologized for it, Emma had simply smiled and kissed him and told him they had time, and he had nearly proposed to her on the spot. Which he will do soon.

At their favorite Azerbaijani restaurant.

He looks at her. All of this, all of his happiness, is because of her, and he can’t breathe for a moment.

“I probably could, love,” he finally answers. “But I don’t want to.” Then he leans his forehead against hers. “I feel like I make a difference there. You taught me that. So for now, I think I want to stay a librarian. A librarian who sometimes writes.”

She smiles at him and kisses him and says, “I love you so much.”

And he kisses her back and thinks about the ring in his jacket pocket, and realizes it’s time.

  
  
  
  



End file.
